


If I had a voice I would sing

by suyari



Series: What Tomorrow Brings [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9102346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suyari/pseuds/suyari
Summary: “You left me,” he accuses.“I went ahead.”Ragnar’s hands find their way into dark, riotous curls and it feels as if his hands have never left them. “I have followed you, John.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "All His Angels".

Ragnar wakes in the halls and cannot help the way his heart clenches in his chest. He had not believed in the Gods with much of himself when he had fallen into the pit, despite all the pain he’d endured. He had not had much faith in the God of Athelstan. He hadn’t known where he would end up, perhaps believing he would simply cease to be, or return to what was. He surely does not deserve to be _**here**_. 

He cannot help the way his heart is breaking. Cannot hear the words being spoken or feel the hearty slaps of all the men who have come before him; those who have been eagerly awaiting his arrival, that they may hear grand new stories told. Ragnar simply cannot move, nor speak, nor hear, nor feel. 

He finds himself taken by the hands and follows, because all that is left is to be lead. Hands push him gently from behind, coaxing him forward as if eager to be in his company as his story is told. The light outside the hall is too bright, too beautiful and he closes his eyes against it. It is all too much and not enough and he will never see his beloved. What good is immortality, is making it to Valhalla, if he must endure never...never…

“FATHER!” 

The joyful shout pierces through him. He knows that voice. He _knows_ that voice. 

It cannot be tears that cloud his eyes when he lifts them. For he has none left to shed. His beautiful Gyda is running across a field. All he can see is the sun shining in her golden hair. The width of her smile as she clears away all the sorrow and lamentation weighing so heavily upon him. 

How could he have forgotten this? 

He moves to fall and finds his arms full. She hugs the very breath from him and as he presses his face into her silken hair, he can smell the flowers of Fólkvangr that have been woven into it. Never had he ever had another daughter. Never had another child as fine come into his life. To be loved solely and of whom he would need expect nothing. 

He looks up to find they are surrounded by young men he cannot name but whom he _knows_ without explanation. For in their faces he sees Lagertha as much as himself. He has never seen them before. And yet, he has known every last one of them. When he smiles they gather close and he wonders if perhaps the weight of eternity can be lessened by the chance to learn who they are - each and every one. If eternity will be enough to weigh and measure the strength of each, and if there is yet mourning in his future. 

He does not need to be told their names. He knows them as surely as he knows the names of his living children, now out to write history and one day bring even greater tales to Odin’s halls than his own. He hopes they take their time in it. He wants them to be successful beyond all limits and imagination. He can surely wait until the day, and will gladly partake in the listening. Pride has already returned to him. And love, in it’s own way. He can be at peace with this, he thinks. Even if there will always be a longing in his soul. A piece of him missing. Lost. Never to be found or returned. It is a comfort to know that a part of him will always be with Athelstan. 

Hastein is the first to wiggle free. The last child lost to him, back when the world lay open before him and ripe for the taking. He smiles when Ragnar makes to ask where he thinks he is going and runs off. By ones and twos, his sons follow. They are pure in the way that only the souls of those who have not touched Midgard with their own skin can be. He is _awed_ by them. 

“Come Father,” Gyda says, taking his hand in hers and gently tugging. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, even as he follows. He does not think he has the heart _not_ to follow.

“We have prepared a feast,” she explains. “To honor and welcome you, Ragnar Lothbrok. Father. Husband. Lover. Conqueror. King. Farmer. Man.” 

He throws his arm about her, tugging her close. She laughs and wraps her own about him, hugging his middle as she leans into him as she once had so long ago. 

They enter the hall and she slips from beneath his arm. He can feel her smile, but he cannot see it. He can feel his children all around. His mother and sisters. His family all gathered to greet him before he can be lost to the glory of Valhalla. He cannot see anyone. For there is a man he had not thought he would ever see again. And he is sitting in his chair, flowers woven into his hair like a maiden at a wedding. It is not very warrior like. But in the end, his beloved had been a healer, had he not? 

He smiles and Ragnar can feel life thrum through him once more. This, he thinks, is what Valhalla was meant to be.

Ragnar cannot account for his steps, for suddenly he is before him. As Athelstan stands, his hands clasp his arms, holding tightly. He cannot believe, and yet, he dare not believe otherwise, lest he be lost to him. 

“ _How_?” he asks; feels the word push free all on its own. 

Athelstan’s hands land upon his own arms and clasp tightly. “All Gods are true to the faithful.” 

“But I lost my faith,” he replies, unbidden. “I believed in _nothing_ when I died. I do not deserve this.”

“You believed in _me_. You believed in love.” 

“And that is enough?” he asks with a huff of disbelief. 

“It seems so,” Athelstan says. “Perhaps it is enough for some, if not all.” 

“You left me,” he accuses. 

“I went ahead.” 

Ragnar’s hands find their way into dark, riotous curls and it feels as if his hands have never left them. “I have followed you, John.”

Athelstan smiles shyly, tilting his head into Ragnar’s touch. “I died for you,” he confesses. 

Ragnar cannot help but stare into his eyes as the weight of it settles over him. 

“I failed to do so once, when you needed me most. I was not nearly so lax the second time.”

“Floki _killed_ you.”

“And I let him.”

“ _Why_?!”

“It was the only thing I could do for you. Ragnar…” His hands reach up and close about Ragnar’s own, as warm as ever they were, bringing the fire of those truly living back into his spirit. “I have wronged you.”

“ _How_ have you wronged me?!” he is quick to interject, insulted by the insinuation. Athelstan was not capable of such a thing. 

His beloved’s hands slide up his chest and wrap about his neck. He brings their brows together and stares deeply into Ragnar’s eyes. “You told me something once. Something I never properly acknowledged or responded to.” 

Ragnar can feel their eyelashes brushing as they blink. The feathery kisses against his skin as they breathe in one another. 

“I’m so sorry, Ragnar. I should have. But when I died, I lost the chance. I should have told you before. And every moment before that.” 

“And what should you have told me?” he asks, breathless. 

“I love you, Ragnar Lothbrok. I always have and I always will. I love you more than I should and I dared not share something so great with you out of fear.” He closes his eyes and leans into Ragnar, who cannot help but lean back. 

“You told me you loved me every day,” he replies. “With every choice you made.” His fingers tangle in his beloved’s hair. “Every time you returned to me. I was angry, yes…” He nudges him with his nose and tilts his head so Athelstan will look at him again. Only when he has, does he continue. “When you left me. But you took my very heart with you when you did. All I have wanted since that day is to hold you in my arms once more. To show you, truly, how I adore you. You are the most precious thing I have ever obtained in all of my life. And I will not waste another moment of the gift that you are.” 

Athelstan’s brow furrows. Ragnar can feel it bunch against his own skin. He doesn’t get to say anything in response, Ragnar will not let either of them ruin the true reward they have been granted. 

He can feel Athelstan go still as their lips meet for the first time. He thinks he may have to coax him even in this, but then Athelstan’s arms are around him and his mouth is opening and the very taste of him sends a lightning bolt clear through Ragnar, from his tongue to his cock. 

“I should have come to your bed,” Athelstan says later as they rest by the fire. He is the most welcome weight in Ragnar’s arms, seated in his lap like the mighty conqueror he is. For he had stolen the greatest treasure Ragnar had been given at birth. Absconding with his heart in a raid so efficient, Ragnar never once recovered. 

“You still can,” he assures him, stroking him and luxuriating in the pure delight of being granted the right to kiss and caress him as he has always longed to. 

Athelstan rests his brow to Ragnar’s temple. “Don’t you have to go to Valhalla?” 

“It is but a walk from here,” he reminds him. “And you needn’t act as if we will never see each other again. You will be coming with me.” 

“I don’t belong in Valhalla.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But, you are the love of my life, Athelstan. You are the very breath within me. You are the reason I aspired to such feats as I have managed; the true source of the glory lain upon me. Without you, I would never have accomplished so much. The greatest victory I have ever achieved was your love. Tell me I cannot freely share that.” 

Athelstan sniffs, shifting slightly. “It isn’t done, Ragnar.” 

“You Christians and your rules.” 

Athelstan laughs, bright and clear. “I think we can both agree, Ragnar, given where we find ourselves, I am not the best at following Christian rules.”

“Yes,” Ragnar hums. “I was hoping you would agree.” 

“Your feast!” Athelstan argues, as he stands swiftly, his beloved in his arms. 

Ragnar hefts him high in great show and gets cheers from the room. “I have all the feast I need,” he tells him as he carries him away, Athelstan’s face buried beneath a hand. 

“I cannot believe you,” he grumbles, even as his arms find their way around Ragnar’s shoulders. 

“We will feast, my love,” Ragnar assures him. “We will feast every day forever. I do not truly know how, nor do I believe I will ever fully understand, but I have never been more grateful. I swear to you, I will not take one moment for granted. Always and forever, you will be certain of the depth of my love for you.”

Athelstan’s laughter is infectious as he’s dropped onto the bed. He rolls over, but Ragnar grabs him and draws him close, lowering his body over Athelstan’s. 

“At last...I am to receive my heavenly rewards.” 

“You always were a horrible Christian.” 

“Good thing we will be among my gods,” he says, hands roaming. Lust, dark and fiery lights in Athelstan’s eyes as skin meets skin. “For I do not think yours would like very much the things I am about to do to you.”

Athelstan laughs again, but soon he is moaning. Ragnar had done many things with his life, not all of them of merit. As any who has passed, he entered Valhalla with regrets. But of all his deeds, the greatest by far - and the only thing for which he will never feel regret of any kind - was tying a young monk to his mast and ferrying him home.


End file.
